


Writ Large

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Background Les Amis de l'ABC, Coffee Shops, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Pre-Slash, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 02:46:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7149545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The activist had both prepared for and never at all thought about meeting his partner. The idea that their lives, seven billion souls apart, would coincide in the brief span of time that they existed was ridiculous and unimaginable, even to his admittedly lacking creative vision. Additionally, they would have to recognize each other, which lay on an entirely different level of possibility (or rather, impossibility) reserved for B-rated Hollywood rom-coms.<i></i></i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>AU where your soulmate's thoughts about themself appear on your body for a short period of time based on a prompt from the lovely grantaire-the-drunken-artist!</i>
  </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Writ Large

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt:](http://grantaire-the-drunken-artist.tumblr.com/post/144347299422/omg-an-you-elaborate-a-bit-more-on-the)
>
>> _It’s based off that post “what if everything you said showed up on your skin would you be so pretty then?” So instead of being words you say to other people it’s thoughts you’ve thought about yourself and they show up on your soulmate and will disappear slowly as your soulmate gets through those tough times_
>> 
>> _For instance if you’re at the mall and you see some cute clothes in a store that obviously only has the smallest sizes on the earth and you think “God I wish I was that thin” or something along those lines they slowly appear one letter at a time on your soulmates skin_
>> 
>> _So R is usually most of the time clear of writing or so he thinks_  
>  E’s insecurities are small and wrap around R’s wrist and only show up in moments when E is the most stressed
>> 
>> _E on the other hand will sometimes have entire essays of self hatred wrapping up his entire arms and sometimes even his body and it makes him so sad that his soulmate thinks these things about himself_
>> 
>> _Sometimes when R is having a bad deal with depression the words are small and faded and are squished together  
>  When R is Trying to drink away his problems and it only makes it worse the letters are messy and bold and look so angry ___
>>
>>> Enjolras wore long sleeves, whether the sun burned hotter than a hearth or hid behind layers of dull clouds. In a world where a person’s private thoughts about themselves were traced onto the flesh and bones of another, it wasn’t uncommon. Some, whose partners had minor insecurities and daydreams written in faded ink or across easily hidden areas, wore t-shirts and shorts without a care in the world. Others, like Enjolras, hid grand ideas and self doubt carved in overt ink, under layers of sweaters, pants, or scarves After all, no one wanted to broadcast their own dark thoughts, let alone someone else’s, even if they left no trace of their owner after a short period of time.

Though Enjolras normally had little regard for treating anyone with kid gloves (unless, of course, past traumas required it) and little talent for it anyways, he followed the vein of others before him and took great care not to showcase the ashamed words writ large on his arms, a quiet human decency to his other half.

When he could find time to be alone, he wore short sleeves. That way, when the first line of black painted itself onto his skin, he could abandon whatever he was doing and read it, sometimes for two lines and sometimes for twenty. On occasion, he found phrases like _I was pretty funny today_  or _I love this painting_. However, more often than not, he found paragraphs peppered with _I am not good enough, I do not deserve, why did I, I should not have,_ and the like. The paragraphs, he knew with a heavy heart, appeared much darker and therefore more prevalent than the positive phrases.

Those vitriolic essays usually wrapped themselves halfway down his forearm (worrying enough), but on bad days, the taste of bile lay heavy on his tongue as he stared at the jumbled letters spreading like toxic oil across his shoulder, onto his chest and dipping to his stomach. Logically, they left no sensation as they appeared, but at those periods, they were stamped onto his flesh with hot-iron brands, one after the other. At one point, it had felt invasive to stare at those words, but now he thought of it as a silent solidarity to the phantom human at the other end. He grew sad and angry and empathetic, and he tried his best to send those feelings to them, thinking as fiercely as he could that _I think you are enough, I know you can do it, I wish I could be there to tell you so._ He wasn’t sure how effective it was, but he tried his best, even when all he wanted to do was sink into a ball of exhaustion and stress.

Sometimes, his thoughts drifted to what must appear on their skin. His anxiety when he thought he saws an officer at a protest, his guilt when someone broke Combeferre’s nose at a sit down turned riot, his pride when someone thanked them for supporting a cause. He wondered what they did about it.

Then those quiet, introspective moments were gone, and his head filled with petitions and causes, his own petty problems discarded in the face of the people.

Grantaire, on the other hand, didn’t know what he wore half of the time. He grabbed whatever was closest and smelled clean and shoved the appropriate limbs through the correct holes (most of the time). Waking up took up enough energy as it was without worrying if society’s collective dress code would approve. For all the time he spent looking dully into his bathroom mirror instead of brushing his teeth, he rarely noted any clashing colors he wore, despite or perhaps in unconscious spite of any color sense he may have picked up as an artist.

He chose clothes with indiscriminate regards to length, from sweaters to crop tops. After all, his other half rarely thought about themself; if they did, it was when he wasn’t looking. Occasionally, he thought he caught a glimpse of grey around his wrist, but it faded within minutes of its appearance. Clearly, they weren’t one for dwelling, and it was a good thing, too. He spent too much time wallowing in his own problems as it was; doubtless, someone else’s would accelerate the process. God, how awful was he? He couldn’t be bothered to look at his _soul mate’s_ problems. He should be worrying over them, not himself. He doesn’t deserve it. Why couldn’t he just suck it up?

There he went again. He hoped futilely that whoever had him could easily cover up his self-centered thoughts, but his partner likely had his thoughts muddying their arms just as he did. They usually appeared in the same spot for paired individuals. He studied his wrists intently, just in case, but as usual, nothing appeared. Then he shrugged, lumbered through his daily routine, and let it sit in the back of his mind as he trudged through his day.

He began by half-assing his morning routine, then internally wrestled with himself about attending classes that day. Though he knows he should, the motivation to walk from his apartment to the bus stop ebbed and waned with each passing minute. It was so tempting to simply stay at his house and do nothing. Perhaps drink a bit, see if the alcohol would light a spark. However, he knew his teachers would notice if he skipped another day this week, and his financial aid depended on this.

Despite his best efforts, he ended up late to his afternoon class, Trompe-L'oeil and Realistic Painting. He made a decent effort at filling the canvas with an image of ‘the most visually stunning thing he has ever seen’, but he felt disconnected and uninspired. After class ended, he trudged to the nearest coffee shop to soothe his woes.

He rattled off his usual order and waited as the cashier rang him up. He counted out the bills quickly, conscious of the line behind him. Then he stepped off to the side and waited for his coffee’s completion. He accepted his drink five minutes later and scanned the shop for an empty table. Finally, his eyes alighted upon a couple leaving their table, and he nabbed it before anyone else could. He hunched over in his seat and generally tried to look as unapproachable as possible, but he heard an oblivious (or uncaring) stranger pull out a chair five minutes later.

He chanced a quick glance up at them and caught a glimpse of red, yellow, and an ethereal jaw line. Swallowing heavily, he forced his gaze back to his coffee before he started studying the shadows of his cheekbones or something equally ridiculous. Grantaire’s fingers itched for the paper and pencils he kept in his bag, but he resisted, barely. Instead, he took a sip of coffee (wishing for something a little stronger) and used the chance to fully take in the view.

_My God,_ he thought. _Here I am, looking like this, when he looks like this._ He knew he wouldn’t have a chance even if he had taken the time this morning to tie back his hair more neatly or clean the charcoal and paint under his nails, but he at least would’ve felt less like he was a thousand leagues away. _Well, he’s probably straight anyways._

What a crime.

After swallowing his sip, he grimaced at the cool temperature. He decided against finishing and gathered his bag, pushing back his chair. However, he hadn’t noticed the incoming passerby, and the resistance knocked him forward when he moved to get up. When he fell over the table, the lid of his cheap coffee cup popped off, splashing the remainder of his coffee all over the table and the man who had shared his table. In addition to that, the drink of the person behind him spilled onto his back.

For a second, the world disappeared. All he saw was the liquid staining the other man’s sleeve and dripping off the table.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Sorry, shit, I’m so sorry.” His eyes darted around the café, taking in the startled gaze’s of the neighboring table. Behind him, the asshole muttered an apology and left. His brain short-circuited. He needed to fix this, pronto. He scrambled for the napkins from the nearby cashier stand and grabbed a handful. His hands fluttered indecisively around the other man.

“It’s. fine,” the blond gritted out, clearly anything but. He grabbed the napkins from Grantaire’s useless hands and tried to mop the liquid from his sweater to no avail; it had already soaked though. Making a frustrated sound, he pulled up the sweater sleeve and swiped at his skin.

With nothing to do, the artist’s thoughts centered on his blunder. _My God, I’m an idiot. I’m the stupidest person to ever live. Why am I so clumsy? Why didn’t I check to see if it was clear?_

“Damn it, not now…” his victim muttered. Grantaire barely noticed, too preoccupied with himself. _If I had a chance before, it’s clearly gone now. He probably wants nothing to do with me. I mean, he wouldn’t in the first place. I’m so-_

“You okay?” the cashier asked in a concerned tone. Then he became aware that he was standing in the middle of a half-full café with a rapidly cooling drink soaking into the back of his shirt.

“Uh… yeah. Sorry. I’m just going to go-“ he cut himself off with a jerky motion to the bathroom. He grabbed his bag and wandered over in a daze. _Wow, way to show off how completely connected to society you are. How many people are you planning on weirding out today? You left that poor staff to clean up your mess._

With a start, he realized he had. He winced and knew he should go back to throw the napkins away at least, but he couldn’t go back and make it even more awkward by interrupting the cleanup they had probably already started. _I am the awkwardest person in the world, Jesus Christ._

He was so caught up in his mind that he didn’t notice the angry blond already in the bathroom until he was staring at his naked, tattooed torso. Not tattooed, he corrected himself as the black continuing to appear up his shoulder, marked. The other man stared accusingly at him, and Grantaire averted his gaze hastily. _Way to do it again, R. Can’t stop with the whole… thing you have going on._

He studied his reflection with disdain until he remembered his purpose in entering the bathroom. Should he take off his shirt in front of him? He wasn’t normally this body shy, but he had already subjected this guy to enough without giving him a show. Not a good show, though. Like that new reboot that had banked on nostalgia to carry them through their horrible writing. Before he could drift too far from the problem at hand, the unpleasant stickiness beginning to form on his back decided what to do for him.

He pulled his shirt off carefully, grimacing at the resistance that the wet cloth gave. Sure enough, whatever sugary drink the jerk had ordered had formed a tacky spot on his back that he felt every time he moved his arms. He tore off some paper towels from the roll helpfully placed on the counter and ran them under the faucet. Then he stared at them for a few moments. How could he wash off something in the middle of his back? No way was he asking the stranger to do it for him; he felt uncomfortable just thinking about it. However, the location necessitated either help from another or some creative maneuvering.

In the end, he settled on turning his back to the mirror and craning his neck at an awkward angle to see where it had dried. Then, twisting his arms in a strange and uncomfortable angle never before used by his limbs, he managed to swipe the dripping towel weakly at the area. He continued to wipe weakly at the spot, failing more often than not, but his cramping neck forced him to face the back of the bathroom instead of the mirror. For lack of anything actually engaging, he chanced a glimpse at the blond, who was trying to scrub the coffee out of his sweater. _Dedication, man. I would’ve given up on that a while ago._

Suddenly, new words appeared on the man’s shoulder. Less hopeful than confused, Grantaire thought, _Probably just a coincidence._ _There's no way I would ever be his partner._ He froze when lines inked themselves onto his skin. He unconsciously stopped cleaning his back and turned fully to stare at… his partner?

_I am such a creeper,_ he thought experimentally. Words crawled across his deltoid. _I shouldn’t do this. How am I supposed to tell him?_  They continued.

The blond finally noticed his intent stare. “What?” he asked waspishly, not looking up from his scrubbing.

“You’re my… I’m your… I think those are my thoughts!” the brunet blurted out as he pointed at his arm. He regretted opening his mouth almost immediately. Clearly, this day couldn’t get any better, what with his usual elegance and eloquence coming out to play. However, the bold words caught the stranger’s attention. He straightened, turning to look at artist. Grantaire internally squeaked, feeling like an ant under a magnifying glass.

“You think these are yours?” he responded carefully. His eyes, the other noted absently, were very blue and also very unfortunately focused on him. How was he not dead? Grantaire nodded after a second under his expectant gaze, flush barely visible under his dark skin.

“I mean, every time I think something, it’s appeared there, so yeah…” he finished lamely. Shit, why did he blurt that out? He couldn’t have garnered some of his usual social grace to sweep him off his feet? Well, that was one more thing to obsess over that night. There was nothing quite like bungling the first meeting with his soul mate to get the old insomnia up and running. When the blond just looked at him in response, he hastily tacked on, “My name’s Grantaire. In case you wanted to, ah, know.”

Caught by such an outlandish claim, he had no choice but to respond, “Enjolras.” He paused, unsure of the next course of action. “Alright, let me see your arm.” The brunet offered his arm to Enjolras, who began to study it. He closed his eyes and assembled a few words, then stared at their subsequent appearance on Grantaire’s arm. He raised his gaze back up to the brunet, who looked a nervous wreck. Honestly, the excitement twisting in his gut mitigated any higher ground that he had on him. This was his first chance to truly impress his partner with his talent for words and writing. Instead, he said,“Well, nice to meet you.”

_I am such an idiot._

The activist had both prepared for and never at all thought about meeting his partner. The idea that their lives, seven billion souls apart, would coincide in the brief span of time that they existed was ridiculous and unimaginable, even to his admittedly lacking creative vision. Additionally, they would have to recognize each other, which lay on an entirely different level of possibility (or rather, impossibility) reserved for B-rated Hollywood rom-coms. However, on those nights when poison crawled across his skin, he couldn’t help but imagine the words he could say to them to make them understand how their mistakes didn’t ruin them and their problems didn’t erase their good facets.

But faced with the man himself, nothing came to mind. The vulnerability required to say those words had disappeared with the harsh light of the truth. Enjolras had never excelled at feats of emotional strength, stilted and awkward in a way the made others question his sincerity. He could accomplish them to a certain degree amongst the company of his friends, but he floundered in the depths of the oxymoron of a stranger whom he knew too well. He knew of his deepest fears and accomplishments, but he didn’t know if he appreciated the complexity of a well written book or preferred watching movies with plots that twisted around each other.

How did he react to comfort? Did he prefer tea or coffee? How does he feel about partners? Did he eat takeout or cook? What did he dream of doing in the future? What was his favorite color?

Questions shallow and deep flooded his mind amongst a host of anxious thoughts about how the other was taking this. Fiction had always displayed it for the most part as a sort of joyous reunion despite the implied anonymity of the situation, and Enjolras had been brainwashed with everyone else despite his usual realism. He had dreamed fleetingly of telling them of their worth, of their importance, but he was frozen.

He hadn’t prepared for an occasion of this magnitude. He had just gotten out of class, for Christ’s sake. He would’ve worn those jeans that made his ass look amazing or put a little more effort into brushing his hair if he had known he was going to essentially meet his soul mate today. He hadn’t prepared note cards on what to say or how to broach the topics of depression, or anxiety, or if he had more than a day’s notice, maybe even psychiatric help. No matter what Courfeyrac said about his “absurd” methods of planning social interactions, it’s not like he went stringently by them; he just needed a slight guideline he wouldn’t accidentally offend anyone (again).

Right now, mind abuzz with various components of Comparative Politics, he was in no state to interact with anything but a pen and paper. Combeferre had informed him that at this stage, he tended to ignore conversation in favor of his own head and people in favor of a new speech. But like it or not, he had to face this here and now. Problem was, he had no idea how.

Well, if Enjolras needed time, he could just… take charge and give himself some. He needed a time to show Grantaire what he was like when he was at his absolute best, when he could be charming and not blundering over his words every two sentences. However, the only times that he felt that comfortable in front of strangers coincided with the times that both Courfeyrac and Combeferre flanked him at the same time, which unfortunately coincided with the times that he could become a bit overbearing: during the meetings of the Friends of the ABC. It would probably be well worth the sacrifice. He could control himself for the duration of one hour, couldn’t he?

To his credit, his thoughts took little more than a minute of awkward silence. Sadly, enough time for Grantaire to evolve from hopeful to uncertain and verge onto defeated. Thankfully, he hadn’t noticed the white words that had settled on his wrist. “I know that I’m-“

“No, no, you’re fine,” the blond assured hastily, a little abashed. “Can I have your number?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course!” he replied just as quickly. Just like that, a bubbly feeling unlike anything he’d ever felt welled up in his chest. They exchanged numbers, and Grantaire privately thanked every deity he knew that no one had walked in on two emotional, half-naked men staring at each other for probably longer than necessary.

“Right,” Enjolras said. “I have a meeting three days from now for a club my friends and I formed, and I was wondering if you wanted to come.”

“Sure, why not? What kind of club is it?”

“Oh, we-“ The entrance of an old man interrupted the description and provided the duo with sufficient motivation to shove their shirts on, sticky coffee be damned, and power walk _very quickly_ out of the bathroom.

Despite the initial embarrassment, Grantaire began cackling as soon as they exited the coffee shop, and Enjolras soon joined him. “Just text me the time and place, and I’ll be there.”

“I will,” the blond agreed, smiling. He turned left and Grantaire went straight, bag swinging jauntily behind him. Once the blond got to the entrance of his apartment, he texted the brunet the information.

(Definitely not one of his finer ideas.)

  
\---

  
For once, Grantaire’s steps were light, and the need for a drink hovered in the back of his mind rather than pounded at the forefront of his thoughts. Hell, it was enough for him to abstain from his usual practices. For once, everything had gone pretty well in his favor. Sure, he had spilled coffee on his partner, but he hadn’t rejected him. He even got his number, though he was unsure whether or not the other actually wanted to text or just wanted to set up the meeting.

He decided to play it safe until then and refrained from messaging him anything other than a quick confirmation that he would be at the club. He almost asked what it was about, but he felt foolishly optimistic enough to warrant a surprise. Whatever it was, he would learn to like it.

A fleeting thought, skeptical of the vague explanation, questioned whether Enjolras truly meant to meet him there or had simply set up a ruse for him. Better yet, what if he needed the time to come up with a way to let him down gently? After all, they could have gotten lunch later that day, or dinner the next day. Grantaire thought distantly that he wouldn’t be surprised; his first impression likely threw his partner off a little. He had been a bumbling, clumsy fool with little to offer, honestly.

_Jesus Christ, stop that,_ he scolded himself. He was overthinking it; even if Enjolras was a little wary of him because he had fucked up their first meeting, he wouldn’t be that cruel. _Unless he would be._

Despite his attempts to quell his anxiety, those thoughts and many more built upon each other until he had thoroughly shredded any hopes he had that this would go well. He dithered over whether or not to go at all a few hours before his roommate shoved an outfit at him and told him to get out before he wore a hole in the carpet. Eponine knew him like no other. When the fated hour arrived, he summoned the last vestiges of his courage and marched to the front door of the cute café that Enjolras’s message had led him to. He peered into the windows, passing over the display goods and the faces of customers in search of that sculptured jaw line. Either he wasn’t here, or there was a hidden corner invisible from outside.

Just in case, Grantaire tentatively slunk through the door, cringing at the sound of the bell that rang with the movement. His eyes darted around the space, and he felt his soul wither a little every time he made eye contact with someone who wasn’t Enjolras. When did he become so desperate to walk into what he knew was likely a trap just for the slim chance of positive interaction?

He’d stay for five minutes and nothing more. If Enjolras didn’t show up, well, he clearly didn’t want to be here. Then he could get flat out drunk and never think about this again. With his mind decided, he wandered to the counter, ordered a croissant, and settled at a table. He tried not to look fidgety, but he was watching the door with a kind of fervor that negated any casual air he might’ve had.

Five minutes came and went, and Enjolras never arrived.

The artist stared bleakly at his empty plate and allowed himself a second of bottomless self-pity. Then he stood, grabbed his bag, and slowly walked to the door. However, a voice from behind halted him.

“Grantaire! Grantaire! Is that you?” Enjolras called out breathlessly. “I’m so sorry; I meant to stay in here and lead you to actual room, but I forgot because- well, it doesn’t matter, I suppose.” The blond’s fair complexion was tinted a bright cherry red that only served to make his eyes brighter. “Here, we’re in the back room.”

_God damn it, he’s too fucking pretty._

He laughed weakly. “Yeah, dude, no harm done. Just lead the way.” He could do this. He could stay calm and brush off his anxiety. He had even convinced himself of it as he followed Enjolras though a cramped hallway and up a creaking staircase when he realized that he really, probably couldn’t.

The room was relatively small for the people crowded within. Six or seven men had all crowded around a rickety table, laughing and talking boisterously in small clumps, though they all appeared friendly with each other. About the group size he had prepared himself for, thank god.

“Everyone!” the blond shouted. They immediately quieted. “This is Grantaire! He’s joining us for today.”

_What is this, middle school?_ Immediately, he hushed that thought. _Be nice._

A grinning brunet made his way from the opposite side of the room. “Grantaire! Nice to finally meet you! My name’s Courfeyrac.”

Grantaire laughed again, stronger this time. “Nice to meet you too. What do mean by finally?”

“Well, Enjolras over here has been fretting _non_ -“

“ _Thank you, Courfeyrac,_ ” Enjolras hissed, then turned to the amused man beside him with a renewed flush. “I should introduce you to Combeferre.” He unsubtly steered him away from the now cackling Courfeyrac and towards a lanky man with an undercut, bent over a book on the table.

“Grantaire, Combeferre. Combeferre, Grantaire,” the red-faced man said by ways of introduction.

Combeferre blinked and looked up from his page. Smiling gently, he said, “It’s nice to finally meet you after all the worrying Enjo-“

The blond man quickly steered him away once more, but Grantaire was already laughing, this time wholeheartedly and well at ease. “Oh, hush. The meeting is about to start, so why don’t you find a seat? Preferably away from those two.”

“As you wish, Enjolras,” the brunet said as he bowed theatrically. The man opposite gave him an amused glance and turned away. Grantaire could’ve help but grin triumphantly at his progress. He slid into a nearby chair and watched as his partner composed himself and called the attention of the room. Grantaire gazed at him, mesmerized, as something unseen clicked into place. Enjolras grew ten feet in a single moment, cast into shadows by the crappy lights overhead but somehow glowing with a determination that forced everyone to sit up and pay attention.

Clearly, he was the leader of whatever club this was, elected or not. Debate, maybe? The artist could work with this; he knew how to argue. But his thoughts flew out the window when Enjolras began speaking.

“As most of you know, last meeting we spoke about the organization of a protest outside of the Limeline building downtown against the treatment of several of their employees. I talked with Olivia Greening from CADIW, and she agreed to protest with us. Now, I know we initially hoped for a date at the beginning of next month, but…”

Grantaire was initially spellbound, but… an activist club? Really? He looked around the room for someone who shared his disbelief or at least indifference, but they all listened to Enjolras with rapture, though one with long hair occasionally glanced at his phone when it buzzed. They couldn’t honestly believe that eight people could daunt a monolithic fashion organization over a few employees. Even if there were a few members missing, they could hardly make a difference when they couldn’t even span the length of the front of the building in a single file line. Corporations like that didn’t act against anything until the news started making noise, and this wouldn’t make a footnote in any article.

As the meeting went on, he tried to keep a positive, somewhat interested expression on his face, but it fell a little flat as more people chimed in with ideas. By the time it was over, he had brought out his sketchbook and begun idly marking out the curve of Enjolras’s jaw. He caught snatches of conversation (admittedly, mostly his partner’s), and he heard the tail end of a whispered argument between Combeferre and said blond.

“…talk at all! What if he…”

“…fine…talk to him. I’m sure…”

Therefore, he wasn’t very surprised when he heard a chair pull out next to him. “You draw?” he asked carefully.

“Ah, you know. Here and there,” he responded, carefully careless.

“It looks nice,” he complimented awkwardly. Bereft of any continual topics, they lapsed into silence for a few moments before the activist bit the bullet. “What did you think?”

Grantaire thought for a second, trying to find a polite way of addressing the futility of their cause, but shrugged mentally. No polite way to criticize anything. “It’s admirable, what you guys are doing, I guess.”

“But?” he pressed.

The artist sighed gustily. “But how are you going to change Limeline? They haven’t changed after ten or so years of people calling them out for their shit. What make you think that you’ll be the tipping point?”

Enjolras drew back as if slapped, but anger soon replaced the hurt. “What do you expect me to do? Let them trample over other people passively? Should we just let the employees who dared to speak out fight against Limeline alone?”

“Are you a lawyer?” Grantaire shot back, rising to the bait despite his better sense warning him against it. “Because they’re the only people who can actually help those employees when Limeline finds some excuse to sue them for their life’s savings.”

“Should they have let Limeline cheat them out of the wages that were rightfully theirs just because of their skin color? Their gender? Their sexuality? With our help, they can hire lawyers so they can get their money from that company.”

“Really? I didn’t know that seven people could drum up enough support to pay the tens of thousands of dollars needed to hire a lawyer good enough to win against that company.”

Grantaire stared Enjolras down in the eye of the storm, so tense he was scarcely breathing and definitely wasn’t blinking. Finally, Enjolras rose slowly from his chair and glared fiercely at him. “It’s better than being _useless_.” The artist flinched back from the directed barb and stared at the fuming activist, bewildered at the sudden turn. With that, the blond stormed out of the room, and regret and hurt welled up in the brunet instantly.

He held back angry tears and cradled his head in his palms. “Shit,” he whispered to himself. “Why did I do that?”

“You know, that’s a pretty good question,” said the long haired person next to him thoughtfully. The brunet whipped his head around, still a bit angry and defensive, but the other had stated it honestly and devoid of taunting. “Why did you say that?”

The last dregs of anger drained from his mind. He studied the person across from him, from their yellow, skintight shirt covered in flowers, to the octopus hairclip that held their hair away from their face. “I don’t know,” he muttered, hiding his face in his crossed arms.

“I’m Jehan, by the way. They/them.” They stared expectantly at him.

Grantaire stared at him, a little taken aback, before responding slowly, “I’m Grantaire. Um… he/him?”

They nodded with a little smile. “Perfect. Now, I think you two should apologize to each other.”

The brunet straightened with surprise. “Him too? I mean, I know I fucked up, but what did he do?”

They sighed a little with, and said with a chuckle, “Enjolras has always had a short temper in regards to activism, but he took it too far when he insulted you. That was clearly personal. However,” and they fixed him with a steely glare, “you shouldn’t have baited him. You knew what you were saying.”

Grantaire cowered under the weight of the terrifying stare. “Right, I know.” Just like that, it vanished, allowing the brunet to relax. “Would it be alright if I went now?” he asked tentatively.

“He should have cooled down a little by now,” they said. “Go ahead.” With their blessing, the artist power walked as quickly as could to the exit and startled when he saw Courfeyrac sitting just outside the door, looking completely comfortable despite the odd position.

The blond looked up at him, a grin still playing around his lips, but there was a hard edge to it that told him to tread carefully. “You’re here to apologize, right?” He nodded warily. “Good. Enjolras should be in the bathroom downstairs.”

Grantaire nodded in thanks and climbed down the stairs as quickly as he could. After he had successfully passed through the staircase, his nerves made their presence known once again. Combeferre, who was sitting at the table closest to the bathroom, casually acting as though he was actually reading his book, only encouraged it. He looked him up and down as he passed, gave him a warning glare, and let him pass.

After swallowing his reserves, Grantaire opened the door to the restroom and found Enjolras already staring at the door, looking drained and nothing at all like the fearless leader who had quieted an entire room with a single word.

Before he could get out a single word, Enjolras began speaking. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean it, and I shouldn’t have said it. You-you didn’t deserve that.” His voice was somewhat stiff, but Grantaire could make out hints of genuine remorse.

Rage flared up in his belly, white hot and fleeting, but it thankfully died out before he could say something he could regret. Bright relief replaced it as tension drained from his shoulders. “It’s fine. I shouldn’t have baited you; you weren’t expecting a complete stranger to start criticizing your club.”

“I suppose we both made mistakes today.” Enjolras sighed.

“Start over?” Grantaire offered. He hesitantly held out his hand, feeling like an old man but wanting something to show that they were actually fine. To his surprise, Enjolras bypassed his hand entirely and enveloped him in a crushing hug.

“Start over,” Enjolras agreed. Grantaire finally allowed his relieved grin to spread across his face. Once they stepped back from each other, he got a good look at the equally relieved look on Enjolras’s face.

_Yeah, we can make this work._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [grantaire-the-drunken-artist](http://grantaire-the-drunken-artist.tumblr.com) for the prompt (and letting me write it haha)! They waited patiently for me to finish this fic as life mercilessly beat me into fetal position, and I can finally say that it's done! It was kind of a struggle to finish this, but I feel pretty proud of myself tbh.


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